For some of us, our first time tanked did come at what some bloggers refer to as “a disturbingly young age.” Maybe it was the disturbingness of that awkward stage that lead this Enthusiast to her first bottle, or maybe it was the feverish anticipation of fourteen years and freshman year and the thrill of the unknown. It was July and one of my best friends at the time had returned recently from France, arriving triumphantly at SFO, her suitcase brimming with legally-bought bottles. Five of us girls schemed a sleepover at the victor’s home, waiting for parents to doze off before breaking fifths of tequila and rum from under piles of tucked-away clothes in a bedroom closet.

Less experienced than my companions, I was especially eager to pull the small round limes from my backpack and salt my thumb’s webbing. “It burns,” they explained. “Drink it fast.” Salt taste, then sharp, wet scent as I raised her parents’ shotglass. Acrid effervescence met at mouth with sour. “Oh shit,” I thought to myself. “This is great.”